Blood thirsty eyes devouring that piece of red
It need not be mentioned; it was his favorite color,
reminiscent of all things devoid and dead
His whole being feeling this very-so-slight spread
Heat, hunger, shivers of an uncanny, loathsome dread!
Perched up on a branch, his weight in absolute balance
Who’d ever thought this old Birchwood would be accepting of his prance
For he was sturdy and muscular, the dead-weight of a full grown man
Not forgetting his shield, surrounding his form encapsulated
His wings – feathers of dark browns and blacks, tender slithers of gold encrusted!
Here he was then, in his true form; a creature against the norm
Or was he a beast, some said a demon, totally malformed
Half man – half bird, with a knifed beak – a gift bestowed
His favorite weapon of choice, apart from them claws unmanicured, tapered and sharpened!
Prowling at night, steam of adrenaline peaked on high,
O! he so adored this feeling of deadly doom and nigh
Gently approached that time, to gorge out his victims heart, eyes and throat,
Body still warm, fresh, no sight of rigor mortis or cold
With his vicious slay, an unsightly attack, his feast of well deserved gold!
She lay there lifeless, her skin glistening under the moon
An umpteenth victim, a victory…for his attack was strong and ferocious
Taking her by surprise, a rushed wind of air, his speed quicker – much faster than lightening
Slapping her hard, right across her temple; his left wing wasn’t gentle, an unrestrained lashing
In that moment of hurried darkness, an unemotional plundering of power
He remembered seeing beautiful shades of olive greens and crimson
Their eyes had met, he saw bottomless chasms; pools of light and compassion!
He had smelt her fear, panic and… and… something new to his animalistic senses
Was it a delicate hint of mountain dew? … Flowers?
Patchouli, roses, lilies…? No, it was a shouting garden of spring, it was – FREESIA!
But he hated spring because it reminded him of life, yet he symbolized death
It didn’t sit well with his anatomy, on the edge of perpetual hypothermia
Had he heard her soft shriek, before her head met the cobbled stone?
Why did he feel his mind wandering off, was he distracted ?
Looking back at her, enlightening his gaze by a more deeper focus
Splattered reds beautifully surrounded her hair,
Like a crown for them queens… His queen of the dead!
…to be cont’d … SCENE 2
Narrative poetry by CHRISELDA BARRETTO
An excerpt from my upcoming book – ME & HIM
OTHER PROJECTS BY CHRISELDA BARRETTO
CHRISELDA BARRETTO – SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS